Bittersweet Symphony
by saltandtea-in221b
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John Watson is struggling to keep his life together. Sherlock Holmes has been consumed by darkness.
1. Chapter 1

_John, no, John don?t walk away. Look at me, please. Please. I?m sorry, John. _

_John._

_John._

_JOHN!_

With a tremendous heave, John Watson hauled himself level with his bed frame, chin resting on the sagging mattress. Odd how the mattress reflected John's own emotional state; sagging, tired, worn. He briefly shook the morning fog from his head, orienting himself once again with his reality. The surroundings of his bedroom came in to focus a little too quickly. A wave of nausea overcame the doctor. A quick turn of his head produced a very unpleasant feeling in his temple, and the contents of his stomach released themselves upon the bed sheet.

Skin covered in a sheen of sweat, John crawled weakly to the darkest corner of his room. He briefly smirked at the redundancy of hiding himself in a dark corner, considering the past 18 months had passed in darkness regardless of the position or placement of his physical body. But the darkness that consumed John Watson for a year and a half could not, would not, be banished at 6am each day. No, no. The darkness that consumed John Watson's every living moment came from within. From a pain so blinding that the only way to quell it is to ensconce it in darkness.

As his muddled brain drifted slowly back into unconsciousness, John twitched slightly against the wall, muscles relaxing despite the tense scenes running beneath his eyelids. Any serotonin that his body produced from the casual encounter with Mrs Hudson yesterday had all but worn off.

The quiet morning was suddenly pierced by a horrible, heart-wrenching sound that would have closely resembled a wounded animal's death cry, if not for the fact it was pouring out of John?s mouth.

Bolting to the nearest window, half-crazed and dire for relief, the good doctor screamed until his lungs burned. He screamed until his eyes were bloodshot, until the small capillaries around his eyes had popped and bloomed in fuchsia freckles along his cheekbones. He screamed until a copper tang saturated the back of his throat. He screamed until the jagged shards of his shattered heart hurt less than the self-inflicted wounds of his outburst.

One word spilled from his lips, the echo off the red brick buildings and black phone boxes and the rain-soaked pavement reverberating all around his head. And his ears ringing with the one word he prays will bring him solace in this darkness.

_Sherlock._


	2. Chapter 2

_John, don't go. John, please. Forgive me._

_Look at me._

Those words never actually left Sherlock Holmes' mouth. His lips parted slightly, a quick soundless breath escaping into the wind. Crystalline eyes that twinkle in the sunlight darkened against the slate grey sky. As the clouds swirled all about Sherlock's head, a small voice cried out amid the cold. A small voice that slowly grew louder. The voice that began as a whisper, chilling the blood coursing through Sherlock's veins. A voice that crescendoed into a cacophonous rabble between the flaps of the ridiculous hat that sat upon the detective's inky curls. A voice that screamed one word. _The_ only word.

_John._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for all those reading and loving on my first serious fic piece. You're awesome!**

* * *

He kept seeing things. Things that continually ruptured the fission in his heart.

One day, as he was walking home from the market, John saw a man. Taller than the general crowd, this man moved swiftly through the sea of people, dodging each member of the swell with an annoyed grace. As the sun emerged from the wall of rain clouds, sunlight glanced off of the man's face, illuminating a smooth plane of ivory skin stretched over severe cheekbones. Remembering how to walk, or how to breathe for that matter, became a hassle for John.

John found himself running full keel past unfamiliar faces, crashing into strangers who absent-mindedly got in his direct path. The tall man quickly ducked into a small musty bookshop on the main street, and John desperately strained his eyes and craned his neck to look through the window. Odd looks from patrons reading books and sipping tea made John aware of his awkward position, and the fact he had three grocery bags swinging wildly from both fisted hands. One last check told him the tall man had escaped into the dark stacks of the shop, once again out of reach.

Desolate, John turned back towards Baker Street. The exhilarating glimpse of the tall man brought forth John's overwhelming emotions. His shoulders slumped, simply no longer able to hold themselves up against the onslaught of despair. Slowly, rivulets of salty tears coursed along John's cheeks, gathering under his nose and along his chin. John couldn't be bothered to wipe them away. Each step became forced, his feet feeling leaden and his limp returning. John cursed himself for ever thinking he could walk around London without his metal companion. He finally reached his destination: the black door with gold numbering. He really should move, ask Mrs. Hudson if he could switch flats. She'd most likely oblige. She understood John's pain, at least a bit.

He shook his head at the thought. He couldn't possibly part with the flat he once shared with Sherlock. How could he possibly move, disregard all those memories, all the mornings waking up to Sherlock pacing the floor, wrapped in his sheet, proverbial steam pouring from his ears as he furiously analyzed another crime. How could John leave the skull? Perched upon the mantle, eyeless sockets peering into the dark parts of him without so much as a blink to give away his bluff, the skull had been there for John when no one else was. He couldn't begin to fathom peering into another fridge, when he knew that no other fridge would hold a severed head, or a colony of cheese-eating maggots, or a mason jar of eyeballs. What other kitchen had more beakers than mugs? What other flat had worn floorboards as a result of an unsuccessful experiment? What other flat had hideous floral wallpaper smothered in bullet holes and smiley faces drawn with yellow spray paint? What other flat had an unused MacBook sitting on the coffee table, untouched for almost two years?

What other flat… What other flat smelled like Sherlock?

What other flat would feel like home?

A wistful smile briefly touched John's lips. No other place in the entire universe would ever feel like home, because no other place in the universe had ever contained Sherlock Holmes as a flat mate. _And no other place ever will again._ An ever-present knot returned to John's stomach as he processed that thought. He shuffled to the kitchen, unceremoniously dropped the grocery bags to the floor, and placed the kettle on the stove for tea. He momentarily entertained the thought of making Sherlock a cup of his own, realizing fractionally too late that his therapist advised him to end that pattern as a sense of closure.

"Damn her and her sense of bloody closure. I don't need closure. I'm closed. Why the hell does she think I'm paying her?! To make me less accessible, to help me bottle myself up more?! Sure, why the bloody hell not?! Let's just keep the good doctor in his own little bubble of pain. Don't let him do things that would ease the pain, _OH NO_. Just keep pretending to be alright Johnny-boy. One day, you'll finally die and it'll all be okay. You can finally feel whole again as soon as you open your bloody dead eyes and see the twit who made you this way."

John turned to go slump over the couch and came face-to-face with Mrs. Hudson. She had tears in her eyes and was looking at John with heartbreaking pity.

"Oh my dear boy, come sit down." Mrs. Hudson gestured to Sherlock's armchair. John desperately wanted to go lay down on Sherlock's bed and cry himself to sleep like any other Tuesday evening, but he felt obliged to Mrs. Hudson. He sank into the soft material and wriggled snugly into one corner of Sherlock's chair. Immediately a debilitating fatigue overcame him, and he began sobbing. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment at this sudden onset of emotion in front of Mrs. Hudson; she seemed unfazed by his tears. She darted into John's bedroom, then into Sherlock's bedroom, and returned to the sitting room arms overflowing with pillows and blankets and a scarf. She proceeded to swaddle John, still heaving great sobs into the still air, with her finds, and as a final gesture she gathered Sherlock's scarf around John's neck, the end falling into his grasping hands.

"Th..th..thank yyyy..ou." John managed between gulping breaths. His outbreak had subsided as his former flat mate's scent enveloped him. The soft sheets and scratchy scarf made John's heart stutter slightly. He could never repay Mrs. Hudson for her never-ending patience and love.

"No thanks needed dear, I know you've had a tough go of it without Sherlock. I miss him myself every day. Quite boring without him 'round, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson quickly scanned the room, a solemn crease touching her brow as she passed over the skull. _Now is not the time to mention removing Sherlock's things from the flat you loon. _She shook her head, and swiveled back to face John. "If you ever need me, you know where I am John. I'm not your housekeeper, but I am your landlady. Your well-being is my business, don't you bloody think otherwise." She chastely kissed his temple and headed downstairs.

As he settled into the encasing Mrs. Hudson had provided, the absolute silence of the flat became deafening. He clutched the end of Sherlock's scarf tightly to his chest, praying morning would come swiftly, and that tonight wouldn't bring any more dreams about falling off buildings or falling in love.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hoping these longer chapters give you something to sink your teeth into. I wanted the first few chapters to set the tone for what's happening overall for both men. This chapter was inspired by "Near To You" by A Fine Frenzy.**

* * *

Sherlock sensed John even before he knew what was going on. The hairs on the small of his neck stood on end. His skin became flushed, warm yet still sporting goosebumps. His stomach clenched, his nipples hardening beneath his cotton t-shirt. Small muscles in his lip twitched, pupils dilated, heartbeat elevated. His senses heightened, hearing the blaring car horns and the whispers of the passing crowd and the almost unheard vocals of the crooning lady on the radio, singing about "something always brings me back to you".

Within seconds of his arrival, Sherlock knew John Watson was near. He quickly stepped out of the taxi and onto the curb, his head swiveling along the street to catch sight of the blonde-flecked head of hair he so desperately missed. Sherlock knew John could not be allowed to see him, could not know just yet that Sherlock was living a new life without him. Abruptly, he saw a shorter man in striking red plaid searching the crowd with frantic, needy eyes. Sherlock turned up his collar, smiling as he thought of how John would scoff at such actions in the middle of July.

He sought out the bookshop he had been spending his days ensconced in, drowning himself in the stacks of musty books to occupy his mind. He knew it was risky, stalking John so close to Baker Street. Honestly, he had no idea if John was still living in their flat at 221b. He couldn't imagine why he would; with Sherlock being gone the rent must be difficult to get on with, even if Mrs. Hudson took pity on John's misery. _That's if someone hasn't moved in with him yet._ The thought crept into Sherlock's unwilling mind as he walked against the midday crowd. No, who would live with John? Ornery at best, the man had almost no one he could rely on to help him while Sherlock was away. Shaking the disconcerting thoughts away, Sherlock hurried through the crowd, suddenly annoyed at every person walking towards him. Thankfully he reached the small, dusty bookshop and ducked inside.

A perfect, forced smile played along Sherlock's lips as the bell on the door tickled a joyful tune upon his entrance. Gerald, the shopkeeper, loved seeing Sherlock daily, however Sherlock was slightly off-put by Gerald's overly-affectionate greetings.

"Ben! Good day? Was wondering if you'd skipped out on us today!"

"Nah, wouldn't dream of it Gerry! What else would I do on such a lovely midsummer's day?"

Gerald chortled behind his counter "Ben, your smart mouth! Direct link to that genius brain, eh?"

Sherlock tipped his hat to the shopkeeper, praying he had time to move to the stacks before John found him through the shop window. He hurried down the shelves, concealing himself behind a large bookcase. Unable to control his desperate need to glimpse John Watson again, Sherlock twisted around towards the picture window at the front of the shop. Warmth and joy spread like wildfire through his veins as the middle-aged soldier stopped at the window. The sunlight raked through John's speckled hair, glinting off the remaining blonde strands, danced along his stubble-lined jaw, highlighted his shoulders, illuminated the slate blue irises and the pale skin. Without hesitation, Sherlock's body reacted to the sight. Sweaty palms gripped his lean thighs, his body on fire with elation, fear, and desire. A small mew of longing escaped from the back of Sherlock's throat, and he had to bite his knuckles to keep from calling out. His eyes remained on the figure on the other side of the window pane, refusing to believe John would simply leave him standing there alone. Any thoughts of John searching the shop for him were dashed as soon as they surfaced, because John was now turning away back into the mill of commoners on the outside.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, gasping when he realized he had been holding his breath. He cursed himself for acting so foolish. John could not know. Sitting down at the closest table, he rested his head on his propped elbows and considered deleting this moment;considered how mush easier it would be if he just deleted John Watson and 221b altogether. He'd been tempted to do so many times before; those long nights laying in bed alone, those brief moments of a song that John used to hum around the flat, the men who resembled John Watson at every turn. They all assaulted Sherlock's mind with memories of his former life, his former home, his former love. _Former flat mate. He was never in love with you. Did you forget his string of women, Sherlock? The way he brought them 'round the flat while you worked on cases, how you loathed all of them for being such prats? No, course you didn't forget... _

A sudden sneeze brought on by the ever-abundant dust particles rattled Sherlock's brain enough to recover from the unpleasant inner monolog he had been lost in. With a sigh, he rubbed the anxiety from his temples and stood to begin his continuing book project in his corner of the stacks.

* * *

"Keep the change" muttered Sherlock as he snatched the takeaway bag from the greasy counter of the deli. It was far too late to be argumentative with a merchant about something as trivial as the £1 stuffed in the tip jar. He had frequented this deli since he moved into the tiny studio apartment located directly above the space. It was not particularly amazing in its preparation of fine deli meats and cheeses, however Sherlock was about as good a cook as Greg Lestrade was at covering up his bad marriage. That is to say, Sherlock was a horrible cook. His skills had progressed in the past year, though, and he could at least provide enough food for himself to stay alive. _Why, that's the real question. _

He marched up the stairwell, carefully avoiding the steps which sagged under any amount of weight, maneuvering around the holes in the worn carpet, tip-toeing past each door as to not make more noise than necessary. The place was a dump. In reality he could have afforded more acceptable accommodations for Britain's only consulting detective, however technically that detective had died on the cement in front of St. Bart's. Everything Sherlock had now was owned by Ben Moffat. And Benedict Moffat was not a man who owned nice things or lived in nice places. He was a simply brilliant man who had fallen upon hard times, lost his well-paying government job, and had to steeply downgrade his life. Now, he worked at the musty bookshop two blocks away from Baker Street. He wore faded jeans and ratty rock band tees like The Who and Rolling Stones. His hair rested upon his shoulders. Benedict Moffat was almost the antithesis of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock pushed open his apartment door. Ducking through the doorjamb, he dropped the takeaway onto his sad excuse for a coffee table and kicked the door closed. Someone, somewhere, yelled obscenities about "loud noises at this hour" but Sherlock could not have cared less than he did at that moment. He was cold despite the July heat in London, a loneliness beginning to creep in, weariness radiating from deep in his bones. Sherlock pressed his thumbs into his eyes, steeling himself for yet another night of bad telly and the mediocre deli sandwich with soggy chips. He snatched the bag off of the table and dropped himself onto the sagging sofa that doubled as his bed. The tasteless comedy show flickered on the screen of the small television, casting a soft glow over the long, lean figure slumped back, snoring lightly while his brain drifted off to happier times, of much better flatmates than the family of mice currently noshing on the soggy chips in the Styrofoam container.


	5. Chapter 5

_Fuck, SHERLOCK!_

_Let me through, I'm his friend. I'm his friend..._

"_John, I meant what I said. I don't have friends... I have one friend"_

_I'm his friend._

"Bloody hell!"

Covered in sweaty bedclothes and tangled in sheets, John flopped sideways to the middle of the bed. These bloody nightmares hadn't plagued him in months. Why now? _Probably because you convinced yourself that man on the street was Sherlock. _Yes, he was certain that was why the nightmares about St. Bart's had returned with a vengeance. Well, he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep now anyway, nothing better to do than get up and make tea. John wasn't even sure what time it was; he had forgone keeping a clock in the bedroom. He didn't want to change anything about the flat, including Sherlock's room. He kept telling himself he would stop sleeping in Sherlock's room downstairs once his limp eased, but he knew he was only kidding himself. He'd only return to his own bedroom upstairs once Sherlock came home and kicked him out. _Let's hope he doesn't kick you out though, right? _

John limped to the kitchen, still wrapped in Sherlock's sheet, to put water on to boil. He checked his mobile for any missed calls or texts overnight, and found one from Molly. _Odd, I haven't heard from Molly in ages._

**John, don't mean to bother you. Thought I saw Sherlock yesterday at the market. Rly freaked me out, hoped you could help me – Molly x**

John checked the time stamp on the text only to realize it had come right around the time he had seen the man in the bookshop. He quickly replied.

**Molly, sry I missed your txt. I thought I saw him too, on the st. He went into a bookshop. - JH**

**Weird. - Molly x**

**Ta. Come for tea? - JH**

**Sure. 221B? - Molly x**

**Yes. Don't bother with the bell. - JH**

John had no idea why he had just invited Molly Hooper over for tea at such an early hour. 5:30am, according to his mobile screen. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he added water to the kettle and put it on. Placing both mugs on the kitchen table, John decided he might want to return Sherlock's sheet to the bedroom. He grabbed a few pieces of Sherlock's personal belongings as well, the skull, the violin, the music stand, the package of cigarettes. The load was unceremoniously tossed onto Sherlock's bed, and John shut the door tightly. Not too soon either, as he heard the creaking of the stairs that signaled Molly's arrival. Throwing the hall door wide, he welcomed Molly with a surprisingly enthusiastic embrace. Since Sherlock's departure, John had stopped leaving the hall door wide open. His sense of security had been drastically reduced after the fall, resulting in a very cautious Dr. Watson.

"Molly, bloody good to see you"

"Oh you too John. You're looking, erm, well..."

John had to chuckle. "Molly, don't lie, it isn't becoming. I look old and sad."

"Oh, um, John, no, I... You just look like John to me..."

"It's alright Molly, come sit, I've made tea."

Sitting across from Molly Hooper, in 221b Baker Street, was something of a novel idea for John. Sherlock would have shooed poor Molly out almost as quickly as she entered. He had no patience for her flattery, and John was fairly certain her girlish affections toward Sherlock had only increased his disdain. But looking at her now, John recognized that if she didn't try _so_ hard, Molly Hooper might have been a catch. For someone else, obviously. But still, she was a smart girl with a good job.

Startled that he was gawking at Molly, John cleared his throat and offered Molly her cuppa. She graciously accepted without making any comments, however her cheeks had become flushed and a small nervous smile pressed her lips in a hard line. John awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, working away some of the tension he hadn't realized was there. He hadn't thought about Molly since a few weeks after Sherlock's funeral, which was simply because he had completely shut himself off from just about the entire world, the exception always being Mrs. Hudson.

The one time he had thought about Molly Hooper was when he finally checked his mobile, which not surprisingly had a full memory of texts and voice messages sending condolences. He had diligently returned the calls and texts, thanking everyone for their concern, assuring them he did not need casseroles or takeaway or company. Molly's handful of texts and voice messages actually worried John, prompting him to walk down to the morgue. That feat itself was exceptionally difficult, as it ended in a semi-psychotic episode for John. He shuddered at the memory. Molly had been alright, simply forlorn at the never-ending death she was surrounded by daily. John encouraged her to take some time off, go on holiday to clear her head. She had taken two weeks off from St. Bart's to holiday in southern France with her family, and returned fresh-faced, tan, and effervescent as usual.

Sitting before John Watson was a Molly Hooper that had fear and hope in her eyes. She toyed with the tea cup, opening her mouth in goldfish fashion. John decided to break the silence.

"So.. you thought you saw, uh..."

Molly could only nod.

"Odd, don't you think? We both see people who look like, ehem, him only days apart?"

"Well, yes. Odd. But surely he can't..." Molly's brief pause was her tell.

John scoffed "Molly, no. I … Dammit Molly I saw it happen. Shit. How? How would he even begin to pull that off?!" _Well you did ask him for a miracle. He's Sherlock, you don't think the man knows how to fake his own death properly? C'mon Johnny-boy. _

Molly shrugged, replacing her words with slow sips of hot tea. John could almost see the wheels in her mind cranking out some reason as to how Sherlock Holmes could possibly still be alive.

"Molly, I begged him for a miracle. I prayed to whatever gods I could think of. I offered my soul to Lucifer, for God sakes! The man hasn't been around for a year and a half! I'm still living in this godforsaken flat, surrounded by all his leftover belongings, wishing he'd walk through that door at any moment. I think if Sherlock Holmes was alive, I would know by now."

_At least I hope I would be the one he'd tell.._ John realized he'd stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. Molly looked shaken at his passionate statement, obviously concerned about his mental health based on their last encounter. He gave her a puppy-dog look and she politely gave him her best _I understand your pain_ glance.

"Sorry. Damn Molly, I just, it feels hopeless. I don't even know what way is up anymore. I just..."

"You loved him, didn't you?"

Molly interjected, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as if the recognition had hit her like a wrecking ball. Sheepishly, John snatched his cup off the table and took a long gulp to process her accusation. He couldn't even deny his affection for Sherlock had gone beyond the initial ruse of a randomly placed flatmate. He set his shoulders and looked Molly right in her doe eyes.

"Yes, Molly. I did. I loved Sherlock Holmes. He was my flatmate, my best friend, my anchor in a sea of confusion, my... my..." John's voice hitched on the growing lump in his throat. _I was so alone and I owe you so much. _"I was so alone, and I owe him so much". He didn't attempt to stem the tears that fell from his crinkled eyes.

"John, I... I had no idea. Well I mean we all had an _idea_ but it wasn't that. We, well now is not the time. Obvious. But honestly John, if I had known."

"Don't fret Molly Hooper. I … What exactly was this _idea_ you claim everyone had then? Don't be a clam Molly!"

"Well you knew Sherlock better than anyone, John. He didn't have friends. Like, none. He had no interest in them. No interest in any of it... Obvious." John cringed remembering that horrible Christmas where Sherlock had picked apart poor Molly, only to find that he was in fact the object of her affection. "Until _you,_ John. Sherlock took to you like a fish in the ocean. I'd never seen anything like it. He'd talk to you, even if you had gone out! He'd call everyone John out of pure habit, as if your name was the only one he could be bothered to remember. So, we all just assumed you were more than flatmates. You'd understand if you could see the two of you. You're like planets that got stuck in some gravitational pull; you moved as if you were two halves of a whole John... Everyone saw it but the two of you."

Molly finished in a huff, purposefully draining the remaining tea in her cup to quiet herself. Her stress was exposed by the shaking hand that rattled her teacup on her saucer. John stood amidst his thoughts, sure that Molly must be able to read all of them, that she could see his hard exterior cracking and crumbling all around. The entire flat vibrated with tension. Molly stood, her chair scraping abrasively along the floor. Gathering her things, she briskly approached John. Looking him square in the eye, she began speaking with the kind sternness of a mother.

"John Watson, you were the best thing to happen to Sherlock Holmes. Don't ever doubt that. The greatest consulting detective loved you more than he's ever loved anything in this entire world. If he's alive, he'll find you. Don't stop looking, okay John?"

John could only nod dumbly, the rest of his body numb. Molly kissed his tear-stained cheek, and swept out of the flat with uncommon grace.

Untold minutes passed. John was frozen. He was trying to process Molly's profession of love. A profession of Sherlock's love. Sherlock, who in his last moments, thought of nothing except seeing John, hearing John's voice.

In that moment, John Watson fell to his knees and prayed that the dreams he so desperately wished away would return, to hear Sherlock's voice once again speak his name.

_Goodbye, John._


	6. Chapter 6

**U still using this number? - Molly x**

**Yes, Molly. Why? - B.**

**Just. It's John. - Molly x**

**Molly... Idk what you wish me to do about this. I've been vry clear. I cant. - B.**

**I know, I know. But he's sick over this. I've not seen him like this since he first come back from the war. - Molly x**

**Do you think I am relishing the time I'm spending creeping around, lying, despising myself Ms Hooper?! That fall didn't kill me, but leaving him … leaving him nearly did. - B.**

**Come home. Pls. - Molly x**

**Ben? - Molly x**

… **Sherlock. - Molly x**

**Molly! Stop, pls. This hurts me too. I'll come when I can. Delete these. Please. And take care of John. - B.**

Sherlock snapped the phone closed. He _knew._ Of course he knew. Lying to John Watson had been, and would always be, his most difficult accomplishment. And not one that he was proud of. An accomplishment he would never want any award for, no acknowledgment, no accolades. Nothing, unless it allowed him home to John.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. _Home._ The word made Sherlock far more sentimental than he wished to be. Before John he had thrived on working as a machine; a well-oiled, emotionless machine. Now he got soggy at thoughts of _home_ and _Baker Street_. Opening his eyes, he moved his skilled fingers up to his temple, a hand on each side of his pale face. Massaging the sides of his head had become second nature to Sherlock. It seemed to somehow relieve the onslaught of memories that came around once he quit his rigorous deleting process. He still had moments where he desperately desired to spend 24 hours deleting John Watson from his head entirely. Currently, the urge was overwhelming.

He despised when Molly contacted him. Not because she was Molly, although that did not help her cause. No, Sherlock despised the way Molly Hooper ran her rather small, metaphorically large mouth about John's condition. He _knew_. Did she seriously think he was okay with this situation? He had been forward with her from the very beginning – John Watson needed to believe Sherlock Holmes died after jumping off the roof of St. Bart's. John Watson did not need to know that Sherlock had entrusted Molly to aid in a fake suicide. John Watson did not need to know that Sherlock had simply cracked his skull, and that the small capillaries in the scalp make a very small injury seem like a very large one. John Watson didn't need to know how Molly helped Sherlock stop his own pulse. John Watson didn't need to know Sherlock was living three blocks away, parading around as an ingenious peddler employed at a cramped bookshop. John Watson just didn't need to know.

Checking his watch, Sherlock realized it was fairly early in the evening. He slouched into his drooping sofa pillows and reconciled with himself on whether or not he cared enough to feed himself. _John would chastise you if you went another day without food... _He decided he did indeed want food. Even without being present, John Watson still had a hold over Sherlock that even Sherlock could not deduce away. He smiled as he exited his building, turning on his heel towards the little deli he frequented directly beneath his flat. However he was brought to a halt by the "CLOSED" sign in the door. Curious, he peeked through the smudged glass to see if any evidence of life was noticeable. Not a single light was on, nor were any silhouettes moving in the back room. Annoyed at this turn of events, Sherlock tried to think of another place he could go to buy some simple takeaway. He vaguely recalled a coffee shop on one of the corners near the bookshop.

Huffing and shrugging his well-worn pea coat up to his ears, he turned once again, this time towards the horizon. Briefly he caught the glint of the sunset off a phone box, and was surprised at the bolt of emotion that went through his gut. Absentmindedly he thought about how the Earth revolves around the Sun, how sunsets and sunrises would be impossible without the revolutions. Everything revolved around the impossible. Everything revolved around John. John was Sherlock's Sun. Sherlock's life had become dark, meaningless, void of change since the fall. Without the Sun, Sherlock's world had no sunrises or sunsets, no beautiful colors, no grass growing through the cracks in the cement, no warmth. He wondered what John's life was like. Going by the Earth and Sun analogy, John was still bursting with warmth, still rotating around and around, illuminating everything. Nothing would change for him, as the Sun to Sherlock's Earth. Without the Sun, the Earth was ruined; without the Earth, the Sun was none the worse.

_Oh you poor sap, stop it. Molly just told you no less than an hour ago that John is not fine. He's rotating alright. Rotating around himself into a vicious black hole supernova of destruction. _Sherlock somehow felt slightly better after his internal pep talk, humming 'Champagne Supernova' in a most inappropriate fashion down the sidewalk. He approached his coffee shop destination with a false bravado that he was completely unsure of, yet embraced nonetheless. As he pulled open the door, he stepped into the rich, warm smell of coffee beans, vanilla, and cinnamon. Momentarily Sherlock remembered the day John decided to impress one of his various lady friends by cooking pastries. He chuckled as visions of John in that god-awful floral apron floated into the back of his mind – John hand-feeding him these delightful little frosted vanilla cinnamon rolls, laughing as the warm glaze dripped lazily down his fingers onto Sherlock's lips.

"S'cuse me sir, are you ordering?"  
"Hmm? Oh, oh my, yes. One moment."

His reverie broken, Sherlock cleared the lump out of his throat, adjusted his pants, and quickly moistened his lips with a swift flick of his tongue. He stepped up to the counter, still gazing at the menu written on a chalkboard behind the cashier.

"I'll just take a black coffee and a ..." With a glance down his nose, Sherlock recognized the petite cashier from somewhere. His recollection roared to life like a freight train barreling through his forehead. This one, she was the one John had made pasties for. _Good lord Sherlock, pull yourself together and get out now!_ Scrambling, a feeling extremely foreign to Sherlock, he choked out "and a bagel with lox". The cashier, whose name Sherlock had adeptly forgotten, smiled politely as she gave him the once-over before turning to get his order. _Please don't recognize me. Though, you and John were over before you started. Why would it matter? You won't go telling him now anyway._

Sherlock, visibly relaxing his tense shoulders, realized that not everyone was going to run and tell John if they saw a man who looked like Sherlock Holmes in a coffee shop one evening. Especially not a woman who had a failed relationship with John. No, no she wouldn't bother. The engagement ring on her necklace told Sherlock that this lady had no time for John Watson anymore. He forced a smile as she turned back to hand him the bagel. Her head tilted to one side almost imperceptibly, and she delivered a small, timid smile.

"You look familiar. Have we met? Outside of the coffee shop?" She chuckled nervously.

"Sorry? No, I don't believe we have" His heartbeat thumping through his ribcage, Sherlock nearly bolted for the door, coming to heel only when she said

"You were John Watson's flat mate, yeah? The insufferable one who always told John he deserved better than some pasty wench?"

Well, she had a good memory. He hadn't planned on that. As quickly as his brain could manage, Sherlock formulated a plan. He glanced over his shoulder with a quick nod, boldly proclaiming

"Well, I was right, wasn't I?"

Sherlock stepped out into the brisk dusk, trying to humble himself back into his alter ego. The thrum of adrenaline through his veins, the quickening of his heartbeat, the staccato of his breath. Oh how he had missed that feeling. That feeling of seeing the shock on people's faces as he deduced away their alibis, the feeling of being the only man who could spot the inadequacies of each person he came in contact with. He was uncharacteristically giddy for a night that had begun so turbulently. The tempest of joy in his body could not be contained, and Sherlock nearly leaped down the sidewalk, giving way to goodhearted giggles from those around him. He even giggled himself. _What a strange sound!_

He continued his gallivanting stroll back to his flat, whistling a tuneless song he couldn't remember the name of, only that John had sung it once or twice in the Baker Street flat. As he bounded up the forlorn stairs, two at a time, he took the corner towards his flat at an indecent speed for such a dimly lit hallway. Digging for his keys, his nose suddenly alerted him to a new presence in the hall. A waft of a scent that didn't belong in a dim, dingy, mouse-infested flat assaulted him, soaking his brain in chemicals and nostalgia. Sherlock knew who was leaning against his door frame before his eyes even left the ground.

"Hello, Sherlock."

That voice. Sherlock hadn't heard his own given name spoken aloud in almost two years. His knees buckled and he sagged, hopelessly defeated, against the peeling yellowed wallpaper. Words escaped him. He had planned for this moment. He had written down the words to use. He knew, he _knew_ somehow this would be how it all ended. How his master plan would wither and die right here at his feet. He scrambled to find those words he rehearsed, but a scratchy, weary voice that certainly couldn't belong to him, simply spat out

"Hello, Mycroft."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had never been less inclined to be polite or courteous to his brother than he was at this very moment. He stomped about the flat, muttering under his breath various curses and obscenities. He violently placed the tea cups and saucers on his rickety coffee table, spilling half of the cups' contents all over the scattered magazines. Unfazed, Sherlock hastily retreated to the hard metal folding chair he had placed on the extreme far wall of his miniscule flat. He sat with his arms crossed defiantly, refusing to bother to look in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft was more than familiar with his brother's wayward attitude. He adjusted uncomfortably on Sherlock's well-worn sofa, which groaned in protest against the movement. He deftly cleared his throat to edge off the awkward silence that was permeating the small room.

"Sherlock. Why are you this upset? You yourself have claimed I am the British government. How could you possibly think you could live in London without me knowing?"

Sherlock harrumphed and turned profile to Mycroft. He hoisted his nose in protest to his brother's questions. He detested the thought of Mycroft _spying_ on him. _How did you think you were going to outsmart Mycroft anyway? The man is the government condensed in one body..._

"I don't know, bother dearest. I suppose I had hoped you thought I was dead, and would discontinue using your powers to spy on such lowly beings as bookkeepers."

"Christ Sherlock, so glad you think so highly of me."

Sherlock snorted into his tea. _Actually brother, I had hoped you would have started keeping an eye on the good Doctor Watson._

"Well, if you must know, I kept surveillance on John Watson, and your flat, for about four months after your little stunt. I was concerned the poor chap might off himself in a similar fashion. But that landlady, Mrs. Hudson, she's been quite attentive to him. Greg's been by to see him, brought him out a few times to the bars and whatnot..."

Mycroft slowed his delivery to give Sherlock time to process the information. Sherlock, however, had wandered over to the grimy window. He was standing, staring pensively out at the empty street below, fingers peaked under his nose. He seemed to have noticed the lack of noise emanating from Mycroft, and he looked expectant. Mycroft continued.

"Yes, well, John seems to be surviving. After those four months, I decided to stop the surveillance on Baker Street. All seemed quiet. Until Sargent Donovan told me she saw you. Well she convinced Director Inspector Lestrade that she had seen you at some coffee shop, and Lestrade called me about a hundred times until I answered. Damn nosy bastards, those friends of yours Sherlock."

"I have one friend. Rather I had one friend."

"Please Sherlock, how can you not see... Oh never mind, you always were a spiteful bastard! Lestrade apparently believed Sgt. Donovan. He felt that I needed to be aware of the possibility you might be alive. I tried to calm him down, explained that John Watson saw you jump, watched you, well, you don't need the gory details from all the others' accounts. Regardless of my doubt of Sgt. Donovan's complete sanity, I began searching. CCTV is not a foreign medium for me. How quickly you forgot that dear brother."

Mycroft stood to stretch his stiff legs, the sofa providing very little support for his frame. He gazed wearily at his little brother. He had hoped finding Sherlock would not mean losing him again as well. It was a double-edged sword that Mycroft had been trying to avoid with this confrontation. If Sherlock just realized, just took a moment to rationalize that he had people who mourned him, who cared about him, who missed him. He tentatively crossed the breadth of the room and placed a hand on Sherlock's hunched shoulder.

Sherlock moved with such swift dexterity that Mycroft hardly had a moment to stabilize himself on the back of the folding chair.

Sherlock whipped around to face his brother, his pale skin inflamed with emotion.

"Mycroft you are as infuriating as ever! Are you enjoying yourself? Squawking at me about how you kept tabs on all my little pawns. How you all _missed_ me oh so much. I used all of you, don't you see?! Can't you all stop being petulant children about your _feelings_? I SAVED YOU ALL. Christ, Mycroft. You run the damn British government. Where were you when I needed saving? Where..."

Sherlock looked helplessly around the room, blank eyes searching for a bit of sense. His panic had settled into a deep-seated knot in his chest, one he tried to rub away with his fist. He softly sat down on the edge of his sofa. In a dire attempt to collect his thoughts, he took a mouthful of hot tea. It burnt his tongue, the sensation bringing his flighty thoughts crashing down around his feet. He was aware something was happening to the right of his body, yet he had no energy to give it attention.

In reality, Mycroft had sat beside his frantic little brother on the sofa. There was no contact between them, just a crackle of tension, and body heat. Mycroft had little experience with scared Sherlock. He could handle angry Sherlock, egocentric Sherlock, drugged Sherlock, even the rare happy Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't presented signs of fear since he was a child. Mycroft preferred not to remember those pieces of their childhood. He shuddered slightly, and wrapped his thin jacket tighter around himself. He cautiously spoke the next words with an escape already planned in the case of an unfavorable reaction.

"You can come back, Sherlock. It's over. It's all over."

The proclamation hung in the air with a pregnant pause. Sherlock shifted awkwardly, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin. With a great heaving sigh, he hung his head in his hands as if it had suddenly become far too heavy for his neck to hold. He mumbled incoherent words down toward the floorboards, to no one in particular.

"Sherlock, I can't... What are you saying? Are you... Fuck Sherlock. Are you a'right?"

"Yes, dammit Mycroft I'm fine. Exceptional. Astounding. Jolly good. Okay?"

"No, not okay. I'm just making sure. Christ, you're going to send me to an early grave."

"Already beat you to that, brother dearest. Ain't all its cracked up to be. Very dark."

Sherlock's sly smile had Mycroft on his feet.

"Bloody arse you are, little brother. Dammit." Mycroft ran a hand through his hair with extreme exasperation. Fraught with nerves and conflicting emotions about Sherlock's potential return to his already busy life, Mycroft took steady hold of Sherlock's shoulder. Escape was not going to be an option this time.

"Listen Sherlock. You've fucked up everyone. You're living in this shite flat that wouldn't even put up our 'Most Wanted'. Go back to Baker Street. Go back to being an annoying, brilliant ass. Tell John it's going to be alright, if that's what you want. Leave this foolishness behind. No one will miss Ben Moffat."

Sherlock hadn't been effective in shaking Mycroft's steely grasp, forced to sit before his older brother with nothing resembling dignity. He briefly considered headbutting Mycroft in the groin, but acquiesced to feign listening. Mycroft seemed to have gone quiet. Sherlock ventured to speak.

"When? When does this master plan happen, to reinsert myself into their lives? Because God, Mycroft, if it had been that easy I wouldn't have spent two years hiding in plain sight. They want me gone. Obvious. John saw me one day. He looked for me about as ardently as a small child looks for vegetables at the dinner table. What am I supposed to do? Walk up to Baker Street and knock? 'Ta John, how're you? Jolly good, I'll take the upstairs room.' John Watson won't be taken for a fool, brother."

"You... You've not gone back because you're worried John Watson _won't take you back?_" Mycroft couldn't keep the scathing remark to himself. "Sherlock, good God. Go home, you prat. Make John some bloody tea, play your violin, do whatever it is you two do when you're not running around greater London causing problems. I'm not an idiot, I see you two. I just... Shit, you're not fooling anyone. Go. Understand? Go!"

With a steel hold, Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's shoulder once, then walked out the door. Sherlock attempted to reorient himself with the spinning room around him. He had spent eighteen months ignoring this day. Eighteen months pretending it wouldn't happen. Eighteen months desperately yearning for home. Eighteen months clawing at the box he had buried himself in. Eighteen months.

And finally, through the tiny holes beginning to form in the fragile fabric of his life, he could see the sunlight.

* * *

**A/N: Mycroft touching Sherlock seems slightly OOC. However, I've always felt Mycroft to be the softer brother. I think he regards Sherlock shrewdly because of Sherlock's nature. I used the touch here to signify authority, but also brotherly love. Sherlock _is_ his little brother, and Mycroft is letting his little brother know that he's got Sherlock's back now when he's failed Sherlock in the past.**


	8. Chapter 8

"Yes, yes Harry. I understand.  
Calm down. Calm down, bloody hell woman! Speak clearly.  
No, no I'm not saying you're drunk.  
No, I'm not Harriet. God dammit. I'll hang up.  
Okay, I believe you, you saw him. Yes, I'll tell someone.  
Yes, yes. Ta, Harry. G'bye."

John was officially emotionally exhausted. Drained of every last bit of any emotion he could muster. He had been rung dry as a bone the past two days. Phone calls, text messages, notes, visitors. Not to mention emails and blog comments suddenly pouring in. He had nothing left to give.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES: Fake Genius Faked Suicide?"  
The newspaper headline had done nothing to quell the unease growing in John's stomach. None of this would have been an issue, except that bloody Sally Donovan had been the first person to report a 'Sherlock sighting', as they were now being coined. Of course, John had thought he saw Sherlock enter that shady bookshop. And there was Molly's encounter. But those had been dismissed as tricks of a grieving mind. John knew about grief. _Oh do you know about grief! _Sally Donovan was a trusted agent of the government, who had not been particularly fond of the consulting detective. For Sally to claim she saw Sherlock, well, she had no alternative reason other than she had actually seen Sherlock. _Or someone who looked similar. _

He strode over to the sofa, crumpling into the cushions with a defeated moan. If he tried hard enough, some days John could smell Sherlock on the fabric of this sofa. Today was not a day he felt like exerting energy to smell anything, including the detective. His mind was racing with thoughts. He couldn't come to terms with the thought of Sherlock being alive. Simultaneously, he couldn't come to terms with the thought that Sherlock was rotting in that grave. His conflicting emotions, along with the constant assault of information on sightings, surfaced some frightening PTSD that drained John of any productivity. John turned on his side, facing the back of the couch, and stopped resisting the fatigue that threatened to pull him under.

* * *

A blaring car horn woke John out of his slumber, mumbling words about 'deduction' and 'unreasonable'. As the foggy haze of sleep slowly evaporated from his head, he glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly dinnertime. His stomach protested it's recent neglect. _Sherlock would have force-fed you food from that Chinese place down the block by now._ John hauled himself into a sitting position, rubbing the sleepy stiffness from his neck and shoulders. Resolved to feed himself, he rose, snatched his jacket from the back of the desk chair, and headed out the door. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he gave a half-smile to the memory the place produced.

The first adventure Sherlock had given John had ended right here in this hall. It was the first time Sherlock had shown John how free he could be. How could John ever forget? The thrill of chasing that cab through the streets of London. The exhilarating rush of watching Sherlock calculate the route second by second as their feet carried them across the pavement. The dawning realization that he was _running_. The boyish laughter they shared at what they thought was an embarrassing mistake. "Welcome to London" John muttered as he absentmindedly traced the patter of the wallpaper. And lest he forget, the look of pride in Sherlock's eyes when Angelo showed up at their door holding John's forgotten cane.

John splayed his hand across the faded wallpaper, leaning in, steadying himself with the one outstretched arm. He let his forehead rest near his hand. Without warning, he began to cry. Slowly, at first, large tears welled in his eyes, tracking their steady path down his cheeks. His licked the salt from his lips, a small gasp escaping from its stronghold. Unable to keep up appearances, John allowed himself one fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated pain. He allowed it to burn through his ribcage and bubble like acid in his gut. He allowed his chest to constrict until it felt as if his heart wasn't beating at all. He allowed a small, strangled cry to emerge through his cracked lips. He allowed his skin to go cold and his hand to shake. He allowed the scalding tears to stain his bristled cheeks. He allowed all of the hurt to flood his lungs, leaving him gasping for air as he drowned in the waves that never ceased.

Panting in desperation, John placed both hands on his knees, taking great gulps of the stale air in the hallway. In an attempt to quell the onslaught of emotions, he slid down the wall, sitting in defeat upon the bottom step he had been standing on. Curling his arms around his bent knees, he cradled himself, huddled against the wall. He knew he needed to gather his wits about him or risk Mrs. Hudson finding him like this. John couldn't bear that thought. He closed his eyes and focused on slowly, repeatedly, inhaling and exhaling. He focused on controlling his breathing, focused on relaxing his tensed muscles, focused on recoiling the unraveled parts of himself that had just spilled over the dam he had been building for almost two years.

_What am I supposed to do Sherlock? Stupid bastard. I can't decide if I want you back or I want you gone forever. You. Left. Me. God knows I don't understand. Do you even understand anymore? Christ. Bloody fucking Christ. You've ruined me. Here or gone, you've ruined me._

John tilted his head back and took a deep, cleansing breath. His lungs filling with moist air, his chest expanded in glorious freedom. He rolled his shoulders, straightened his back, and stood. His stance suggested John had made a decision. A purposeful choice regarding his feelings on Sherlock. He took a sure step forward towards the front door of the building, then another, then another, until he was standing on the walk. Hailing a taxi, John's confidence lasted him until his cab reached the closest bar he could find.

* * *

John had never been successful at keeping long-term lady friends. He supposed it had been caused, in part, by living with a man like Sherlock. Before sharing a flat with the detective, he hadn't had much time for steady relationships. University, medical school, Army medic; none of those things quite permitted John to hold down anything resembling a relationship. Of course he had sexual encounters with various women, all perfectly respectable ladies who found comfort in his bed for a night or two. John wouldn't say he was a frequent lover, but proficient nonetheless. He had kept that in mind as he sat at the bar, drinking lager and scoping out the other patrons.

His eyes met hers in the cliché way that every woman hopes for. He tipped his head towards her, indicating he saw her across the bar. She smiled, coy in her advances. He returned the smile, however his was bold and brash. John was making no inclination to be coy tonight. He needed human contact that didn't remotely revolve around Sherlock Holmes for one night. He ordered another beer and walked around to the other side of the room. Excusing himself, he parted the crowd next to his intended, slipping into the empty seat beside her. Her cheeks flushed slightly at his forward advances, and he smiled at the reaction. He had forgotten how invigorating this part of life could be. He had been dead inside for almost two years, void of nothing but sorrow and loneliness. He was tearing down the veil between himself and the outside world.

"I'm John." He extended his free hand towards her. She took it with a firm but soft grip, giving him one solid shake of the hand.

"Mary. Come here often, John?"

She gave him a sly wink, accompanied by a breathy laugh that made the hair on John's neck stand on end. He replied with a throaty chuckle.

"No, actually. Needed a change of scenery. Mary, huh? That's a pretty name."

"As pretty and common as a wildflower on the moor. But thank you, John, you're kind."

"Can I buy you a drink then, wildflower?" John found himself winking at Mary, a move he had learned from Sherlock, which he found only too ironic. He kept that tidbit to himself and focused on the beauty beside him.

John found Mary delightful, her conversation flowing from one topic to the next. Before he knew it, hours had passed, and John was thoroughly drunk. Mary held her liquor well, and John was certain she would be tucking him into his bed rather than crawling into it. He had come to the bar with a purpose, and fully intended to attempt to fulfill that purpose. Head swimming, he took Mary's hand and looked her in the eyes. The large blue eyes had become slightly bloodshot, but her ruby lips pulled back in a wide grin. John was delightfully shocked when it was Mary who proposed leaving.

"Wanna get out of this bloody awful place?" She giggled that breathy giggle John had come to enjoy.

"Oh, God yes." Instantly he wished he had chosen different words, and he tried with all his might to focus on the tilt-a-whirl room before him. He gave a huff and vaulted up out of his bar seat, dragging Mary behind him.

Out in the crisp night air, John's head cleared slightly. He took a moment to examine the woman still clasping his hand. She was pretty, a girl-next-door charm about her. She was shorter than John, however she had shed her heels halfway through the night. He took stock of her willowy body, her firm hand, her ruby lips and bright blue doe eyes. He found himself very proud of his accomplishment at picking out the most acceptable bed mate for the night. Mary hailed a cab, and they tumbled in together, a drunken mess of arms and legs and giggles. John slurred the address a few times before the cabbie understood.

As they reached their destination, John untangled himself from Mary to pay the cabbie and help her clamber out of the backseat. They spent a bit of time kissing on the front step, until they were breathless and wanton. John led her up the stairs, stumbling and laughing, and unlocked the flat door. Mary launched herself at John as he turned the doorknob, and they fell into a heap on the floor. John could wait no longer, his desire rearing up inside him like a wild beast that had been tame far too long. He stripped himself of his coat and dragged his shirt over his head, popping some of the buttons in the process. Mary suppressed her giggles with a lustful moan at the sight of John's naked chest, and she began divesting herself of her overcoat and sundress.

Amongst the pile of clothes, John dipped his head to nuzzle Mary's naked breasts, perfect domes of soft flesh that peaked in arousal. She moaned loudly, and John decided she deserved better than being taken on the floor of his flat. He urged Mary's legs around his waist, and linked together, he stood and intended to walked directly into Sherlock's room. Mary found the position pleasing, however, and began running her fingers through John's tousled hair, coursing over his taut chest, tracing his tensed jawline, dancing over his toned biceps that bulged with the work of supporting her. The sensation drove John into a frenzy, pushing his lover up against the far wall of the living room, kissing her freckled neck and shoulders, thrusting beneath her, finding no purchase. As quickly as John began, he stopped at the look of horror on Mary's face. She muffled her scream with one hand as she used the other to point to the darkest corner of the room. John's military knee-jerk reaction told him his back should not be turned. He let go of Mary as she proceeded to stand on her own. John turned, using his body as a shield, pressing his back to her, sandwiching her between the wall. His vision was still slightly impaired by the lager, and he strained to see what horrified his lover. The inky black of the flat was quietly illuminated by the headlights of a passing cab. In that brief moment, John saw what had shocked Mary. A figure was perched on the sitting room sofa, pensively awaiting something; what, John was unsure. He cleared his throat to speak clearly.

"There's nothing of import in this flat. You can look, if you wish, but I insist you leave now before I reach my handgun."

In the darkness there was a snort of disapproval. John knew the room spinning had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he consumed. It had everything to do with that noise the figure had made. Because he knew that noise. He had dreamed about that noise for months. His mouth suddenly dry, his mind blank, John had no knowledge of what exactly happened next.

Before he realized what was happening, Mary was being handed her garments by the figure, who still somehow kept to the shadows. John was standing against the wall, alone, naked, painfully aware of the chill that had fallen in the flat while he had been at the bar. As he watched the scene before him unfold, John realized he still had said nothing. He frantically searched his mind for the proper words to apologize to Mary for what was happening. To explain away this horrendously embarrassing, infuriating situation.

All John managed to croak out was "Mary, uh, sorry." She looked terrified, incredulous, and absolutely dumbfounded at what had unraveled in the last five minutes. She shook her head as she straightened herself, handing John his underwear as she stepped over his discarded clothes pile and out the door. John stood there dumbly. His motor functions seemed to have failed to work properly, keeping him paralyzed, naked and exposed. His eyes were glued to the figure in the shadows.

As his pupils dilated, adjusting to the achromatic blackness, the figure came into a blurry semi-focus. The deep chestnut curls contrasting with the creamy, pale skin of the neck. The earnest, bright, electric blue eyes focused only on John. High cheekbones offset by a rounded jawline. Puckered lips, well-defined. The toned muscles visible through the thin cotton t-shirt. The slender waist, accented by a belt. A plush behind that had no place on such a slim silhouette. John Watson found himself wishing the flat was cooler as his skin flushed. He vainly attempted to quell his rising joy as the figure moved infinitesimally closer, taking only one long-legged pace towards him. As John's emotions, varying from rage to elation, threatened to overtake him, the figure moved into the light thrown through the window by the lone street lamp, and for the first time in eighteen months John Watson had a clear view of Sherlock Holmes.


	9. Chapter 9

Sunlight came pouring in through the window, soft and bright. Puffs of dust meandered through the beams, making their way to some unknown destination. The linen fibers of the half-drawn shades were illuminated, a hazy glow diffused around the edges. The dawn made everything golden, ethereal, heavenly. A steady warmth radiated from the light, banishing the chilled midnight shadows.

Sherlock squinted through the early morning brightness, allowing himself several moments of uninterrupted quiet. He wiggled his toes in the rays of sun, shadows dancing along the baseboard. Each movement roused another part of his brain, another portion of his body. Slowly he strummed his fingers along the carpet beneath him. Focused on this moment, regulating his breathing, his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm with his heartbeat. His bare skin relished the kiss of heat emanating from the captured sunlight in the room. Sherlock found the stagnancy surprisingly acceptable in this rare moment of blissful peace.

He allowed himself to listen to the increasing silence. Each miniscule sound seemed to echo in the early morning stillness. His solid heartbeat, the blood coursing through his veins, dust drifting to and fro, far-off cab horns, cathedral bells clanging out a wake-up call, a small bird chirping in a nearby bush. Lazily, he opened his eyes fully, optic nerves twitching in the bright light of day. He could count the specks floating above his nose, see the small cracks in the ceiling. Moving only his eyes, he examined his surroundings once again. Lucid, in daylight, it was just as he had remembered it. Warm, inviting, spacious yet still somehow cozy. A grand open floor plan that he had preferred to one with walls that would only serve to separate he and his flatmate.

The reverie was broken by a single ragged breath beside him. A small smile perched itself upon Sherlock's lips. Moving slightly, he was suddenly aware of the legs that had been intertwined with his own. Their warm weight was not at all unpleasant on his naked flesh. Sherlock stilled, inhaling deeply in preparation. Turning his head to the left, Sherlock expelled the lungful of air in ardent wonder of the being laying next to him.

"Oh, my doctor, I've been dying without you"

John Hamish Watson was the most singularly breathtaking creature Sherlock Holmes had ever laid eyes on. If Sherlock hadn't feared waking his subject, he would gladly trace the dips and curves, the seams and peaks, the shadows and highlights on John's body. Unable to coerce his hands to touch the sleeping doctor, Sherlock resigned to memorize John's features as he laid beside him, alight with the clear morning sun. Burnished strands of blonde hair stuck out at odd angles, a testament to the events of the evening prior. Paper-thin eyelids covered the ever-searching blue eyes that, once opened, would burn brightly with truth, searing through all of Sherlock's layers right down to his soul. Pale lips, parted by slumbered breath, twitched slightly. A day's worth of stubble covered his jaw, his chin, his upper lip. The near-translucent wisps of blonde hair that spread over his extremities shimmered in the morning gleam. Curly tufts of chest hair danced in the glow, softening the hard definition of pectoral and abdomen muscles. Soft beige flesh covered sinew, lean muscle, and solid bone. Conscious of his own body's response to this examination, Sherlock debated on continuing.

Passion outweighed logic, tugging his attention to the very part of John that would bring the detective to his knees without a deduction or explanation. Dense blonde curls surrounded the base, contained only by John's meticulous diligence to hygiene. Satin-soft skin sheathed John's manhood, delicate shades of pinks and purples interwoven along the shaft. The blunt, wide head balanced out the thick root, its continuity ending only where it split to spill the devious results of pleasure. Sherlock felt wanton and voyeuristic, appraising John like this for his memories. His own cock rested heavily along his stomach, twitching as he allowed one last glace at John's delicious body. He wasn't sure how long he had been laying there, but he felt certain his reprieve from last night would soon come crashing through his veil, crumbling any pretenses he had in the beginning. He gave a deep sigh, languidly extracting himself from John's legs in an attempt to stand. He quickly snatched up his t-shirt and jeans from the day before, dragging them on in haste. John stirred, and Sherlock prepared himself with a neutral position in his chair, gazing at the empty fireplace.

John groaned, then swore loudly as he rolled over onto his stomach. John raised himself on all fours, gingerly kneeling on the carpet, leaning back on his heels. Sherlock restrained himself from making any snide remarks. Silence was going to be his ally this morning. John gathered the remaining blanket around himself, rising like a timid, faltering phoenix from the proverbial ash. His taut frame stretched, some of the stiffness ebbing away. He halted his movements, gazing around his feet for some unknown article of clothing or personal item. His gaze moved up from the floor to the spaces around him. He seemed to be inspecting the flat, just as Sherlock had done minutes before. His eyes seemed void of recognition, however.

Sherlock was vaguely aware he had not stopped staring at John since John first moved. He tore himself away from the spectacle, placing his interest in a volume of literature that had been tossed onto the coffee table. _Ford Maddox Ford. Surely this isn't what you've been reduced to doctor? Tsk._ Sherlock flipped open to a page near the middle and began skimming over some story of unrequited love, mistresses and government. He promptly ignored John's sporadic sighs and feet shuffling. His gut clenched in anxiety, an uncomfortably foreign feeling he wished would disappear. Only John ever gave him these psychosomatic issues, which annoyed Sherlock because he actually found it endearing. _Only John._ He began humming while he continued to thumb through he pages of this melodrama he had picked up.

John finally turned about-face towards Sherlock, slack-jawed and lost. He looked helpless, defeated by emotions and a rather large quilt. Acquiescing to Sherlock's embargo on conversation, John stumbled to the chair across from Sherlock's. Unceremoniously he fell backward onto the seat, huffing as his body weight collapse around him. The blue eyes that scorched Sherlock's soul squinted in confusion. Unable to contain himself any longer, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Feeling well, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock heard the tinge of laughter in his own voice. Internally he reminded himself that this was the man he loved, the man he lived and almost died for. The man who, against all odds, had not kicked Sherlock out of the flat last night. He deserved a bloody medal, not mocking judgment. Tilting his head to the side in a show of earnest concern, Sherlock warmed his voice.

"John, how're you feeling? Are you o-okay?"

For the first time since they both awoke, their eyes met. The hot coals of desire burned in Sherlock's abdomen as he stared unwaveringly into John's weary blue eyes. He felt his cheeks flush as love unfurled like a crimson banner over his cheekbones. Longing to feel John's hands upon him, Sherlock felt his skin tingle and his cock harden in anticipation. He knew he would have to stow his lust, he knew John would need time to talk and rationalize and accept this new reality. He could wait. He had waited too long before, but this time Sherlock knew the words to say whenever John gave him the opportunity. He could wait.

* * *

John blinked, once, twice. He needed clarity, he needed answers, he needed something to make sense. He was standing in the middle of his flat. Covered in only a large quilt. Staring at Sherlock Holmes. Flashes of the night before flicked through his mind, and he scrambled for the words to say. He shuffled his feet, wincing at the sudden pain. _Oh, oh my. Dammit that's going to make things uncomfortable. _ John took the brief repose from thinking to simply _look_ at Sherlock.

_Bloody Christ he's just a beautiful as I remembered._ And he was. Like Adonis embodied, sitting in the armchair paging through some novel John had tried to read a few months after Sherlock's fall. His chestnut brown curls had grown longer in the months he'd been away, curling down around his earlobes and the base of his neck. Sherlock had kept his smooth, pale skin virginal, no trace of tan lines to be seen. Jeans and a cotton t-shirt were new additions to a wardrobe that previously consisted of suits and scarves. The t-shirt was fitted, accenting the sharp planes of Sherlock's shoulders, the rounded biceps and sculpted pectorals. The jeans were a delightful bootcut that made his ass perfect, accentuated his long legs, and held his slender waist in place. John was surprisingly pleased with the look. Sherlock's body had slightly more mass to it than John remembered; soft fleshy bits that covers the ever-present lean musculature. He always thought Sherlock was a bit too skinny, a bit too slender for his own good, and now the softer parts of the detective sent pleasure signals directly to John Watson's cock. He was having a difficult time repressing the images from last night, and with shaky knees he hobbled over to the armchair opposite Sherlock. Shamelessly he fell into the chair, heavy-lidded with lust and overwhelmed with confusion. Sherlock asked him rather snidely if he was feeling well; John wasn't inclined to answer.

A warm, concerned baritone coaxed his wounded emotions to life. "John, are you o-okay?"

He balked as his eyes met the clear aquamarine stare. He almost came right there in the quilt. All the breath had escaped him, and his only response was a painfully slow nod. His mouth was dry, his tongue wide and flat and useless. He licked his lips in vain to supply some relief. He knew he had to speak to Sherlock, to hash out what had happened last night. _But what had happened last night? What is there to discuss John? You know how you feel about this insane, insufferable man before you. What could you possibly need to say now in light of all that's happened?_ John shook his head, knocking the thoughts away. He fisted the quilt in his hands, tucked his feet under the edge of the armchair, and cleared his throat. _Now or never big guy._

"Sherlock, we need to talk about last night".


	10. Chapter 10

John had no concept of time or space in the moments following Mary's departure. He just stood there, slouched against the wall, naked, gawking at Sherlock Holmes. His mouth was gaping, eyes wide, really no amount of self-control. Sherlock chuckled slightly and tossed John a quilt. Quickly John wrapped the fabric around himself. He realized his teeth were chattering, his body vibrating with shivers. He wasn't sure if it was from shock or the chill in the flat. His motor function was impaired by the lager, and the shock, so the first words he spoke to Sherlock in almost two years were horrid and slurred.

"Wh-what th-the b-b-bloody hell are you d-doing in my fl-flat you gigantic arse?"

As if he didn't hear John's words, Sherlock strode over to the fireplace and promptly lit a match, igniting the leftover wood from some long-forgotten fire. The flickering firelight cast an ominous glow over Sherlock's face, deepening the shadows under his eyes, sharpening the angular cheekbones and brow line. The flame jumped, and his silhouette was ignited with a red glow. A tremor shot through John's body, and he had to lean against the wall to regain his balance. Despite his inner monologue telling him this was indeed Sherlock Holmes, the imposing man that stood before John did nothing to lessen the quaking inside John's soul. Without warning, the silhouette spoke.

"I wanted to see you."

An interval of time passed quietly, a crackling fire and two bodies breathing, the only sounds. John was still leaning against the wall, cloaked in a quilt. Sherlock stood statuesque before the fire. His deep baritone cut through the blackness.

"John, I know this must be...confusing. Possibly even angering. I do apologize if I ruined your evening with your lady friend. I simply needed to know you were okay. I..."

Sherlock drew a deep, shaky breath that caught John's attention. Sherlock had never been one for pregnant pauses, shaky breathing, or caring if John Watson was 'okay'. John took a couple steps toward the fireplace, toward Sherlock. He was sobering up, and the reality that Sherlock was actually standing in the flat was suffocating. He drew a labored breath, moving closer, until he was an arm's length away from Sherlock. He was about to speak, about to reach out to make sure Sherlock was tangible, real, not a figment of his imagination or a drunken hallucination, when Sherlock spoke again.

"I've been hiding, John. Hiding in plain sight. I worked at a stuffy bookshop about four blocks from here. I had a horrid flat over that way too. Godawful place. I pretended to be some forlorn businessman who had lost my money but not my intellect. Hence the wardrobe." Sherlock tugged at the t-shirt. John couldn't help but smile at how odd the get-up looked on him. All lean and lanky, almost gawky. He stifled a chuckle with his fist, praying Sherlock would continue.

"I saw you, John. Two weeks or so. You must have noticed me, or someone you had hoped was me. I waited in that damn bookshop for you to come in, guns blazing, to smoke me out of my rabbit hole. But you never came. Then bloody Mycroft outs me. Bastard. Regardless, John, I hope I haven't caused you too much inconvenience. I meant no harm, truly. I.."

John had decided long ago that he would never feel for anyone the way he felt for Sherlock Holmes. Their relationship had no label, no title. It didn't need one. However when John heard Sherlock tell him that he hoped that faking a suicide and disappearing for two years wasn't any inconvenience, John knew he would never be so angry with another human being as long as he lived. Sherlock's abrupt turn to face John shocked John into motion before he even had time to process his actions. His fist made direct contact with Sherlock's mouth. John heard a voice yelling, heard two voices hollering, only to realize one voice belonged to him, and the other to Sherlock.

"YOU ARE AN INSUFFERABLE BASTARD, SHERLOCK. INCONVEINIENCE?! ARE YOU DAFT, MAD, OR BOTH?! THIS WASN'T A BLOODY FUCKING INCONVEINIENCE. THIS WAS MY LIFE. MY LIFE. YOU RUINED ME..."

"JOHN I KEPT YOU SAFE DON'T YOU SEE? CAN'T YOU SEE? MORIARTY WOULD HAVE HAD YOU ALL KILLED, THE WHOLE LOT OF YOU. BLOODY CHRIST I HAD TO LIVE LIKE A … A … FUCK, JOHN, I DID IT FOR YOU. AND MRS HUDSON, AND MYCROFT. AND DAMMIT YOU'RE MAD AT ME?!"

Frenzied, John launched himself at Sherlock, grabbing for any purchase he could find. Sherlock was momentarily too stunned to fight back, but regained his composure quickly enough to dodge a few of John's punches. John sank two fists into Sherlock's ribcage and felled him, Sherlock clawing desperately at John's chest. Playing the advantage from the floor, Sherlock grabbed John's feet out from under him, bringing John down on the floor of the sitting room. Crawling towards John, Sherlock attempted to plan two steps ahead of where he thought the soldier might be. Unfortunately, John had the upper hand in hand-to-hand combat. As Sherlock attempted to stand, John swiftly kicked a foot out from under him, grappling Sherlock into a hold that almost certainly deemed John the winner. John straddled Sherlock, pummeling him with blows that had no real force behind them, serving as a catharsis more than an attack. Sherlock simply let John go, until he realized John was sobbing over him. Gently Sherlock caught one fist, then the other, stowing the blows once and for all. John couldn't control his cries, and he unabashedly let his head fall onto Sherlock's heaving chest.

* * *

Pinned beneath his friend, Sherlock was helpless. He could taste the coppery tang of the blood spilling from his split lip. He couldn't be angry with John for hitting him though. He deserved it, more than anyone. A punch in the face was actually much less than what Sherlock deserved. He focused his attention back to the man on top of him.

"John. John. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What can I do? Let me make tea. I'll make you tea. John? John?"

Unsure of what more to say or do, Sherlock simply let his friend cry into his chest. Occasionally John would whimper "so alone" between breaths. Sherlock was sure he had never felt so alone as he did right now, beneath John. He realized he was still holding John's fists, and he released them, smoothing them out onto his own chest. John clasped one hand tight, intertwining their fingers, and Sherlock didn't protest. He knew he had hurt John. He had hoped the damage wasn't irrevocable, that he could somehow coax John back to the man he was before the fall. Now, Sherlock wasn't so sure that man even existed.

The man astride him was broken, so very broken. His pain radiated from him in waves. Sherlock could feel it now, the pain of loss and betrayal and loneliness. He absentmindedly began to stroke John's hair with his free hand, making small noises of affection to quiet his friend. He found that John's weight was not uncomfortable despite their awkward position on the hardwood floor. Shifting his own legs outward, Sherlock felt John align more comfortably along his body, legs stretched out now between Sherlock's own.

John had stopped weeping, but made no clear intention to move off of Sherlock's chest. After years of refusing to be touched by anyone except Mrs. Hudson, somehow this full body contact with John didn't feel awkward for Sherlock. He felt grounded. He felt warm. He was certain if John stood up right now, Sherlock would simply float away into the night sky, up into the atmosphere, lost forever. He was still stroking John's hair, purposefully now. He relished the textures and smells of John from his position. He felt a tear along the crease of his eye, and with a healing breath, Sherlock began to cry too. He made no sound, fearing that John would find his weeping foolish. However the sobs racked his body like a wayward ship lost at sea. Soon it was impossible to ignore the fact that Sherlock was crying, and John peered up at him.

"Hey, I'm supposed to have the mental breakdown. Blame it all on my PTSD. Not you, never you."

John cooed softly into Sherlock's chest, using his free hand to wipe away the moisture dampening Sherlock's cheeks. Briefly Sherlock sobbed even harder, mainly when John shimmied up to rest his head in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, nuzzling the soft flesh between his shoulder and his neck. John reciprocated Sherlock's affectionate sounds, stroking his face as the tears slowed. Once Sherlock's face was dry, John simply continued stroking Sherlock's face. Occasionally his hand would move up into Sherlock's hair, small circles rubbed into his scalp to calm him further. Again Sherlock pondered how he had gone so long without direct human contact, how he had gone so long without John's soft, steady touch. He failed to remember why he abhorred contact beyond a handshake, but he knew he would never deny John if he asked again.

* * *

John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, surrounding himself with all that was Sherlock. He pressed a tentative kiss in the hollow of Sherlock's collarbone. It was met with no resistance, so John continued pressing small kisses along the smooth skin of Sherlock's neck. He squeezed Sherlock's hand tighter, trying to signal Sherlock without using words. A quick, strong responsive squeeze gave John a heady feeling of power, and he took off on a sprint. Kisses poured from John's lips like Holy Water, over Sherlock's neck, along his jawline, behind his ear. Using his knee for leverage, John pushed himself up face-to-face with Sherlock. He came to an abrupt halt when Sherlock's clear aquamarine eyes were analyzing him through tear-soaked lashes. John sighed, remorseful for the damage he had inflicted on such a perfect man.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have.." He trailed off, preoccupied with tracing Sherlock's swollen lips with an index finger. Sherlock truly did have the most amazing features. John found himself slightly envious of his friend's pouty lips. He wondered what kissing them would be like. He had pondered that far more often than he liked to admit. With a steely resolve, John decided now was not the time to balk out on missed opportunities.

John briefly started into Sherlock's eyes, then dipped his head to press his lips gently to Sherlock's. A small hum of pleasure radiated out of Sherlock's mouth into John's. Smiling, he proceeded to drop light kisses upon Sherlock's battered lips. A small smile crept up his face, starting with his mouth, drawing up his cheeks, and finally crinkling his eyes. Sherlock's smile was less reserved, a large grin erupting in the darkness. John took that moment to absorb the sight that was Sherlock.

His aquamarine eyes nearly glowed in the darkness. The still-burning fire threw sharp angles to all his features, giving him a sinister appearance. His wide smile though, the one that dimpled his cheeks and made his eyes sparkle, that was enough to banish any evil in John's world. John traced Sherlock's jaw, dragging a fingernail gently down the pearly skin of his neck, running small circles up and down his collarbone.

Sherlock's breath hitched. John froze. _I went too far. Shit. Maybe pull back, laugh it off, blame the PTSD, blame the booze, bloody hell blame Mary if you have to._ His mind raced, trying to decide which excuse to use so that he could get out of this with the least amount of embarrassment. Chuckling, John sat up on his knees, bringing his free hand to rub the back of his neck in nervous habit. He glanced down at Sherlock, assessing the damage he might have done to their newly reestablished potential. Sherlock tipped his head to one side, resting it on his shoulder. His bright eyes burned with curiosity and something that John couldn't place; two years apart had deeply affected the connection between them. John shifted uncomfortably between Sherlock's spread-eagle legs.

"I uh, well.. Christ. Sorry I hit you. I can get you some ice. Or make you tea. I'll go make tea."

John began to stand when Sherlock snagged his hand. John's heart leaped in his chest, hope burning like a new ember. He cocked his head, hoping this would encourage Sherlock to explain at least a small bit of what was happening right now. Instead, Sherlock sat up in one fluid movement, bringing his face and torso flush with John's. In a second motion, equally as fluid, Sherlock released John's hand, grasped his face between his palms, and kissed John. His kiss began as a sweet moment, making John's heart constrict with emotion. Within seconds John knew this kiss would not lead to tea. This kiss would not lead to the life they had before the fall. This kiss was a beginning, to what John was unsure, but he returned the fevered kisses with reckless abandon.

* * *

Kissing John was as close to a spiritual moment as Sherlock was sure he would ever have. When John had begun nuzzling his neck, Sherlock was unsure. When John had wiped away his tears, Sherlock was unsure. When John kissed him, nothing had ever made more sense than that to Sherlock. The world righted itself. When Sherlock kissed John, he was sure. Sure he had never loved a person the way he loved John. Sure that he had never thought more about one person than he had about John. The small box that had been holding him underground splintered into pieces around him, glorious sunlight streaming in, casting away the demons.

Sherlock took his time kissing John. He explored John's lips, his tongue. He nipped and suckled and licked John's lips, moaning accolades into John's warm breath between each one.

"You are … so amazing … Dr Watson … I missed you …"

Sherlock's hands roamed over the slopes and peaks of John's body. John hadn't been able to put proper clothes on between Mary leaving and their fight. Sherlock was grateful for that fact now. He kept the quilt wrapped around John's shoulders too keep off the chill. Sherlock slipped his hands between John's naked body and the blanket, moaning softly at the feel of John's warm skin beneath his fingers. Working his way across John's back and shoulders, Sherlock deftly massaged and rubbed and pinched the soft bits, enjoying their give. As his palms skated across John's muscled arms, he grunted with approval. John seemed to enjoy this raw side of Sherlock, and Sherlock would not be one to disappoint.

He ventured down John's neck, grazing along his neck with soft nips. Sherlock felt John's body responding, a sheen of lust covering his goosebumps. He continued kissing and sucking along John's clavicle, dancing his mouth from one shoulder to the other. He reached the scar, pausing to examine it uninterrupted. To distract John from the intermission of kisses, Sherlock began pulsing his fingers into John's lower back muscles, a simple massage technique that drew a moan of contentment from the doctor. Sherlock's gaze rested on John's wounded shoulder. He could see where the bullet had made impact, where it had shattered the bone and torn the flesh; where the heat from the friction scorched the skin. All repaired now, yet still a constant reminder of John's old life. Sherlock chastely kissed the scar with respect and adoration for this brave man placed before him. He proceeded with his affections, covering one shoulder then the other. Sherlock stopped, pulling back to assess John's state.

"John, I. I feel like I need to say words but I'm not sure what those words are."

His eyes searched John's for some indication of what needed to be done now. John's kind blue eyes shone with emotion, though what emotion it was, Sherlock was again unsure. John exhaled with a chuckle and shrugged.

"Sherlock, I don't bloody know what's going on. I know I got stewed to put you out of my mind, intended to find some half-decent woman to bed, brought one home, and you're standing there like you never left. I'm half-naked, drunk, and you're laughing at my piss poor attempt to be rid of you. Mary's left. We've fought. And now..."

John gestured to the space between them, which only amounted to a few inches. His eyes were earnest, lacking the fear and rage of earlier. Now, they held adoration, warmth, and lust. Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his t-shirt, having returned both of his hands to his own lap.

He suddenly felt very vulnerable in front of John. He ducked his head, tearing his gaze away from his only friend. How could he expect John to want this? _He isn't gay, Sherlock. Just because the whole world assumes he's your lover doesn't mean he is. Or ever will be. Foolish boy. You saw how mad with lust he was for that bar wench. The only passionate thing John's done to you tonight is hit you in the face. Stop fooling yourself. Before you ruin it all._ His shoulders slumped, his gaze firmly locked on the carpet beneath them. He drew his legs from around John, sliding backward to allow himself room to stand, allow himself room to walk away from all this before it was too late for them to go back.

It was John's turn to catch Sherlock's hand as he was moving away. Voice wavering, John spoke softly.

"Sherlock. What're you doing? I'm sorry. I don't know what to say either. I-.." Sherlock could hear John's voice, thick with emotion, catch slightly as he continued

"I just can't go on without you Sherlock. Whatever you want me to be, I'll be that. Half the world thinks we're gay anyway. I don't know what that even means anymore. I don't know much, really. I'm an idiot, remember? I just know what I said to you at your bloody graveside still is true. And I just... Christ, I can't go back. I won't."

Sherlock hadn't completely stood, so he was crouching in front of John as the words tumbled out of his mouth. Sherlock raised a finger, silencing John's open train of thought. He gently cupped the side of John's face with his raised hand, rubbing his thumb along John's small cheekbone. His voice was heavy as he spoke the words he knew he had waited for, the words he knew would either break the emotional stalemate or bring his kingdom crashing down around him. He would risk it, he would risk it all, for John Watson.

"John. I was so alone. I owe you so much"

The force that John's body hit Sherlock with made him thankful he hadn't stood up. The force of John's kisses made him thankful they were now sprawled on the sitting room carpet. The force with which John tore off every article of Sherlock's clothing made Sherlock glad he had never enjoyed t-shirts and jeans to begin with.


	11. Chapter 11

If he thought that kissing John was spiritual, Sherlock _knew_ making love to him would be absolute nirvana. Sure, he'd fucked other men, boys rather. He hadn't ever kept track of them all, but the list was shortened by repeat offenders. The list stopped growing the day Sherlock had met John. At first it was unintentional, Sherlock simply not finding time to meet anyone sexually desirable. He was keenly aware his new flat mate was more than likely straight, and felt it was polite to not impose his own sexual practices upon John's living quarters. All of those reasons, of course, were a bluff to the deeper motivation. At the time, Sherlock refused to acknowledge such things, knowing that emotions and sentiment only interfered with proper brain function.

As he divested John of his boxers, Sherlock had never been more attuned to his emotional side. He swore in appreciation of John's body, his light blonde fuzz and broad, soft features complimented everything about Sherlock's own dark, sharp, angular body.

"My God, John Watson, you're stunning."

John blushed furiously, crossing his arms over his exposed chest in self-protection. Sherlock took pity on him, wrapping him into an embrace, closing the awkward distance that had formed between them. From his taller viewpoint, Sherlock took a moment to act childishly horny. He lightly smacked John's butt with an open palm."Nice ass, too". John wiggled his behind in good showmanship. Sherlock's deep laugh resounded through the flat. He kissed the top of John's head, stilling his movements to gather all the possible data. The way John's hair smelled like pine needles, the way his head fit into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, the way John's hands wandered over Sherlock's back as if they needed to touch every part of him. _What now, genius? You're not going to cuddle him all night are you? C'mon, you both want it. You can feel how much he wants you. Teach him how, he'll love it._

Sherlock gulped down the unfamiliar feeling of fear that erupted in his stomach, coughing to clear his throat. Once he opened his mouth to speak, words began spilling out, unbridled.

"John, I, uh... Christ, look John, I know you're not, I mean, I know you've been with women before and I know I'm not a woman, obvious, but I just... I'm willing to work at it if you're worried or nervous or I mean if you think it's gross then we won't and I'll just leave you be I just want you I just want all of you but if you don't then -"

Sherlock knew he was rambling, and he knew John knew. He was slightly annoyed John wasn't helping him. John was being completely silent, giving away nothing from the look on his face. Sherlock was unsure what the emotion was, but suddenly he felt extremely foolish for thinking a man like John Watson would want a dick in his ass. Sherlock began trying to explain again.

"Look, John, I know I'm not what you're looking for per-say, uh, sexually, but Christ I'm being a bloody twit and I just -"

John's near-hysterical peal of laughter ended Sherlock's agonizing monolog. Eyes wide, John gaped at him, looking aghast as his laughter subsided.

"My God, Sherlock, is that your way of asking me if I'll let you fuck me? Bloody hell man, you have no idea, do you? Here, feel this and tell me if you think I'd want anything else."

Sherlock's hand was guided directly onto John's frighteningly thick, deliciously warm, obviously erect cock. A small gasp from Sherlock was accompanied by a moan from John. Hand over hand, John began moving back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm along his shaft. With his free hand, John gingerly encircled Sherlock's semi-erect cock, calling it to full attention. Sherlock held back a moan of delight, fearing the sound of his own pleasure would send him to an early release. He needed to savor this time with John. He wanted to store this memory in the safest part of his mind. As he quickly made space for the untold length of this memory, he heard John speaking words. Snapping his mind to the present moment, Sherlock realized John was making a request.

"Sherlock, oh bloody hell, Sherlock please?"

"Anything John, for you, anything."

Without warning, John spun so his back was facing Sherlock. _Oh my, he's trying so hard but he has no idea. This is why I love him. He tries so hard for me, trusts me so much. _Sherlock appreciated the gesture, knowing John was completely out of his depth in this situation. He tugged John flush to his body, John's back to Sherlock's front. He stooped low to whisper hotly in John's ear.

"John I need you to do what I say so I don't hurt you, okay?" John nodded furiously. Sherlock smiled, reaching around to grab hold of John's engorged cock. He gave it a small tug, using it as a rudder to turn John's body back to a position that had them face to face again. John was already panting with the contact, firing up Sherlock's already inflamed libido. He snaked one arm around John's waist, pulling him close, kissing him deeply. Through the fevered kisses Sherlock murmured words of encouragement. When he could stand it no longer, Sherlock dropped to his knees and without hesitation took John's cock as deep into his throat as he could manage. Sherlock hummed in sinful pleasure, delighting in the musky taste of his doctor.

"Wha- bloody hell Sherlock I... I... Uhhh sweet God ,Sherlock!"

Smiling with John's cock in his mouth was not an easy task, but Sherlock managed it. Afraid of losing John too soon to the oncoming orgasm, Sherlock slowed his bobbing head, using only his skilled tongue to lap along the smooth underside of John's cock. John swayed in ecstasy, upheld only by Sherlock's arm around his waist. Sherlock took John full to the base in his mouth, sucking hard once and releasing. His free hand lightly stroked John's now moist cock, and he stood to meet John's astonished face. Giving John a crooked half-smile, Sherlock implored his lover's face. The only result was wonderment.

As if on cue, John passionately kissed Sherlock, first on his lips, then along his jaw, trailing kisses down Sherlock's neck and chest, lapping along his peaked nipples, down his ribs, nipping at the meaty muscle around Sherlock's pelvis. Sherlock was near certain he would spontaneously combust right there in the flat when he watched John take a mouthful of his cock, his blond head and blue eyes determined in their mission. Sherlock threw his hand upon John's head, slowly guiding him along the shaft, down to the root. Pure, undiluted awe spewed from Sherlock's mouth as he watched John hollow his cheeks, sucking almost too hard, but Sherlock found the pain manageable.

"Dammit John, shit. I swear to God if you've been practicing." Sherlock could feel John's small laugh reverberate through his cock, into his pelvic muscles. An unexpected but welcomed feeling. "Ugh, careful, your teeth, John. Enough, enough John." Sherlock couldn't come in John's mouth, not yet. He needed to feel John, warm and tight, surrounding him.

Kneeling to level himself with John, Sherlock noticed John looked bashful, reminding Sherlock that he needed to praise John. _Yes, that's something normal people do. Think of how John praised you during cases, yes do that._

"John, that was- that was brilliant John."

Sherlock kissed his face, his lips, his cheeks. Reaching between John's legs, he stroked John's hard cock, feeling it jump and twitch with the sensation. He needed to feel John between his own legs.

"John, do you, um, have lube?" The question seemed to pop the bubble surrounding their fiery passion, but John didn't seem to care. He jumped up, strode into Sherlock's bedroom, emerging quickly with a fairly full bottle. In response to Sherlock's raised eyebrows, John stammered an explaination.

"I – I had been – Well okay I'd been sleeping in your room. And ya know, for a while, it was lonely. So I'd, well, oh come on it isn't that funny. Sherlock!" John swivled to return to Sherlock's room, but Sherlock quickly stood and caught him in a hug. Sherlock whispered in John's ear seductively.

"Did you think of me? Late at night, laying in my bed, did you touch yourself to me, John?"

"Yes. Always. Just. You." John croaked his response.

"Oh John. It was always you in my fantasies too. Even when you were only a staircase away." Sherlock let the implication linger as he grabbed the bottle out of John's hand.

Wasting no time, Sherlock squeezed the jelly onto one slender finger. He held John close still, angling his own body to allow proper penetration so as to not hurt John. He gently rubbed John's bottom, massaging each fleshy side. He cooed more encouraging words to John, willing him to open as much as possible.

"Relax John, just relax. You're so amazing. Just let go baby." The term of endearment surprised Sherlock, but the word came naturally. As he uttered the last word, he slid his slick finger into John's painfully tight ass. The puckered skin had little give, forcing Sherlock to move agonizingly slow. He could hear John's breathing quicken, felt his inner muscles tighten at the intrusion. Sherlock continued pressing into John until his second knuckle disappeared. Applying more lube, Sherlock massaged the rim gently, drawing out groans of what seemed to be pleasure from John. Concern blossomed in Sherlock's gut, and he quietly made sure John was okay.

"Does this hurt, John?"

"No, mmm Sherlock it feels amazing. Will you make love to me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had never heard more beautiful words come from John's lips.

"Soon, baby. I need to know I won't hurt you."

"Mmm you won't Sherlock. You won't.."

Spurned on by John's desire, Sherlock eased his finger out, applied copious amounts of lube to John's hole, and reinserted the solo finger. Gradually he entered a second finger, then to his wild delight, a third. John was soundless, except for the moans of "oh God yes" he uttered when Sherlock wiggled his fingers deviously. Checking on John frequently, he was awestruck at how wanton John was. As he released his fingers from John's ass, he moved their bodies backward onto the sitting room carpet again.

As a pair, they sank to the floor, John laying in wait underneath Sherlock's lean body. Sherlock tried to form words to explain to John what this moment meant, but was left wanting with the English language. He knew the words that most people would use in this situation, but he found them to be too plain, too common, too simple for the feelings he had for John. Maybe he should say them anyway, for John's benefit.

"John, I – I - "

"Sherlock, don't. I know. Tell me tomorrow, if you must. Okay? Now, just fuck me, please?"

Sherlock gave John his crooked half-smile and proceeded to slick his own cock with lube. Positioning himself over John, Sherlock held himself upright by bracing himself on the back of John's thighs. He needed to see John, needed to see him explode with pleasure at Sherlock's hand.

Tortuously slow, Sherlock sank his cock into John's warm, tight ass. The crest of the head breached John's puckered hole, ripping the breath out of Sherlock's lungs. John convulsed in pleasure, moaning accolades in Sherlock's name. Pushing steadily, Sherlock encased himself in John's deepest parts, filling John with his cock, tugging at the virgin skin inside him. Once Sherlock planted himself up to the base of his cock, he applied a dollop more of lube around John's pink, stretched hole, earning a gasp from his lover. Feeling confident he wouldn't hurt John, Sherlock pulled back halfway, and began to thrust. The friction of his cock inside John drove him closer to the edge than he'd ever been in such a short time. He delayed his release by checking on John.

"John, baby, I need you to talk to me. Is this ok? You feel amazing, John."

"Ugh, yes Sherlock, it's – it's perfect. Please don't stop."

"I won't, I won't. Just tell me if it's too much, please John. I need you – I need you to be okay."

What Sherlock really needed was to fuck John into oblivion, to drive him mad with lust, to own him body and soul even if only for a moment. Throwing caution to the wind, Sherlock picked up his pace, thrusting harder and deeper into John. Unable to control himself, John started stroking his own hardened cock. The sight drove Sherlock near insane, pumping harder against John. Sherlock could feel his own orgasm building, felt the heat washing over him, the pure joy bubbling up into his chest. Making eye contact with John as he continued to push and pull, Sherlock saw his peak reflected in John's face. A few more thrusts and he was going to tumble over the edge.

"John I- I'm going to come John."

John's reply came in the form of creamy white ejaculate spurting from the tip of his cock, coating his hands and spattering Sherlock's stomach. The view was more than enough to ignite Sherlock's orgasm, ripping through him until he saw nothing but white light and heard nothing but his own voice screaming John's name.

* * *

John prayed, to all that was holy, Mrs. Hudson couldn't hear them. It was his only concern. He grimaced when he realized that whatever had been holy about him, was definitely not holy any longer. He was completely unsure how he had gotten into this position, but the shock of pleasure that ran through him made him completely sure he would find this position again. He moaned Sherlock's name louder than the previous time, spurning Sherlock to thrust harder and deeper. He reveled in the fullness he felt, knowing he might pay for it in the morning. He didn't care. How could he care?

He opened his eyes to find a pair of blazing aquamarine orbs burning in front of him. Brow furrowed with his exertion, Sherlock's face was impossibly beautiful. The light rose blush and sheen of sweat that covered his milky skin only made him more awe-inspiring. Unable to resist, he moved his hand to his own cock, stroking it like he had many nights before. However tonight, he didn't have to imagine that Sherlock was kneeling between his legs, pounding his contracted hole with a long lean cock that resembled every other part of his astonishing. Tonight, that was his reality. Which was only made more real by the sound of Sherlock's hoarse voice telling John he was going to come. Acknowledging the power that Sherlock's voice had over him, John's orgasm rolled over him almost on cue. His thick semen enveloped his own hand and streaked Sherlock's stomach. John felt Sherlock body respond, mirroring his climax with an added bonus – Sherlock screaming John's name as he pumped once more, releasing himself into John.

Overwhelmed by sheer exhaustion, John could do nothing except lay underneath Sherlock. Limply, Sherlock extracted his semi-flaccid cock from John, only to lay back down with his body covering half of John's. Reaching around with one hand, John found the discarded quilt from earlier, pulling over them as they drifted off into the sated sleep that lovers find after their movements and words are finished.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Once again thank you for the lovely responses! Sorry this chapter took so long to write, I had a bit of writer's block after such loaded previous chapters. Enjoy 3**

* * *

The space between them filled with an expectant silence. The words John needed to say rattled around in front of his tongue, clicking against his teeth in frantic attempts to escape. John moistened his lips, smacking them loudly to alleviate the quiet. He sank back into his armchair, resting his head upon the back in hopes of reducing the tension creeping through his shoulders. He fidgeted to make noise, tapping his toes on the wooden floorboards, drumming his fingers along the armrest, anything to keep the oppressive muteness at bay. He sighed heavily, the springs in the chair creaking in response to his full-bodied exhalation. He hoped that Sherlock would get annoyed at his pointless movements and finally speak. He was shocked when his efforts were successful.

"John, what do you need to say? If you've forgotten, my patience will far outlast yours while we sit in silence. Before you, the majority of my life was, in fact, silent."

John raised his head to look at the man sitting across from him. Sherlock rarely spoke of the time before he met John, unless the information pertained to a case. For Sherlock to willingly refer to his past was, in short, quite significant. John sat up, placing his elbows on his knees in a hunched position. He felt less exposed this way, as he began to expose his heart to the tempestuous man seated before him.

"Sherlock, I just need to talk through this, okay? You can stay silent if you'd rather, that's dandy. Just let me talk a bit, ta?"

Sherlock kept his body lax, seemingly unaffected by John's words. But as John continued, Sherlock mirrored John's pose, resting his elbows upon his knees, his chin nestled in the crook of his thumbs, fingers peaked against his mouth.

"Sherlock, I've been a mess since – since you fell. I meant those words I said at your grave, the ones you repeated back to me last night. I'll play detective for you – you were there. You _heard_ me say those words. Sherlock, why? Why the bloody hell didn't you let me know you were alive? I- I was alone again..." John shook his head, knowing his words were selfish. With his head down, he continued through Sherlock's laconic state.

"And now what? Now, you're back? Simple as that? I don't know where to go from here Sherlock. I'm just as lost now as I was when you were gone. Ironic, I suppose, isn't it? I waited for this, damn near prayed for this, and now that I've got it I dunno what I'm going to do with it."

The painful irony was not lost on Sherlock. John continued.

"What _are_ we doing, Sherlock? I know some things don't need labels, don't fit into tiny boxes that feeble minds configure to sort out life. We floated in that space the entire time we shared this flat. Flat mates, best mates, shag mates – all of those things defined what _we _were for the people around us. I quit trying to convince people I wasn't actually gay -" At that, Sherlock gave a quick, warm laugh that sent heat running down John's spine. "And I still hold to that, Sherlock. I don't wank off to men, I don't date men, I don't shag men. I just -"

John trailed off, sighing with the effort of this conversation. He supposed it would be easier to accept the label, to agree that he was gay in all references of the word, move on with life. _Not like it even matters anymore these days. _Hadn't he just told Sherlock he had foregone fighting the accusations? But he needed to make his point clear. He purposefully locked his gaze with Sherlock's.

"I'm not interested in _men,_ Sherlock. There's only ever been one _man_."

John smiled, remembering the last conversation that had revolved around misunderstanding the use of plurals, when Sherlock had stated he did not have _friends_. John had been so hurt, so taken aback by Sherlock's callousness, until Sherlock made it clear he had used the plural, insinuating he had only one _friend – _John.

John still had no reasoning behind their friendship. He ventured to guess it was a symbiotic relationship of mutual requirement, each man freely providing something the other needed. He had instantly been drawn to Sherlock's tenacious character, awed by his deductions, overall enthralled by the enigma that had been the consulting detective. Sherlock had given him not only the ability to reside in the city he loved, but to _live_ in it, to experience London as he had never dreamed he would. In the beginning, John assumed Sherlock had kept him around as a willing pawn in his insane cases, accompanied by John's ability to successfully pay rent each month. Along the way, it stopped being about the cases or the rent, but about the two men chatting over tea or decorating the flat for Christmas. It became about Sherlock and his doctor. About John and his consulting detective. Two halves of the same, albeit wonky, whole.

John realized he had lost himself in his nostalgia as his chin slipped off his fist. His eyes refocused themselves to find Sherlock staring intently, seemingly frozen, entranced by John. When he noticed John had recovered from his reverie, Sherlock smiled.

"You were saying, Doctor Watson?" John heard the gruffness underneath Sherlock's light tone. He wondered if it was from passion or annoyance. John grimaced, swallowing audibly.

"Ahem, yes. Well, as I said, there's only ever been one man, Sherlock. I cannot define myself as gay because, ah, I just can't. I'm not interested in any other man but you. The women were lovely, no doubt. But I've only ever truly -"

he paused a moment to gather his wits about himself.

"I've only loved you, Sherlock. Whatever you are, whatever you've done to me, I cannot undo it. It won't go away. I can shag a hundred women, nothing would change, it was never about the sex. I haven't seen or heard from you in two years, yet you walk back into my life like a flaming, no pun intended, beacon and I am a moth immediately drawn to you. I can't fucking stop it."

"Do you want it to stop, John? Because I'll go. I'll leave you to your life, leave you with Mary and the flat and all my possessions. I came here last night only to witness your well-being. I never intended for -" Sherlock broadly gestured to some invisible thought "-for this. I regret nothing from last night, John, please know that. I merely regret hurting you again. I'm truly sorry."

"Sorry, what? No, dammit Sherlock I don't - I don't fucking know what I want! I want to go back to before you fucking decided to launch yourself off a building to be a goddamn hero. I want to go back to being shot in the shoulder and gimping 'round London and fighting with Harry and not knowing how glorious life is with you. But Christ if I don't bloody want you here with me too. And I can't have it both ways, I know. I know -"

John and Sherlock were both sitting forward in their respective chairs, teetering on the edge, holding on to the armrests as if their lives depended on it. Sherlock stood with precise movements. John's eyes followed his movements, until Sherlock was looking down over him. Sherlock's supple, slender fingers grazed John's cheeks, cupping them gently. John was apprehensive about this, no good could come of this moment, he felt it in his gut. He opened his mouth to protest whatever Sherlock was proposing, only to have Sherlock press a forefinger to his lips.

"Hush, John. Do you want me to go? It will not be forever. But I will go in haste if it's what you want."

Something inside John's brain snapped, shards of thought puncturing gray matter, tearing through blood supply, demolishing synapses. He breathed out the words he swore he'd never say, cursing the day he walked into Bart's with fucking Mike Stamford. The word flowed from his lips so fluidly he swore he almost meant it.

"Yes, go."

With a curt nod, Sherlock straightened his posture. He left nothing to guess, nothing to deduce, nothing to question. He simply grabbed his coat off the sofa. As he crossed the threshold of the flat he concisely stopped mid-stride to turn to John, lips barely parting as he said "Goodbye, John" once again.


	13. Chapter 13

The quiet stillness encroached upon John, sneaking toward him until he was buried in it. He was completely unaware of time ticking slowly by. The sound of his beating heart and shallow breath were the only noise flooding his ears. All this was accompanied by a blinding flash of agonizing defeat. He had made the unthinkable choice of letting Sherlock leave. Nay, he had _told_ Sherlock to go. What a cruel trick life had turned on him; all his wounds given a healing balm, only to allow the bandage to be painfully torn away before it could heal. Now infection could settle in, fester in the wounds until John was panting with fever and praying for death to overcome him.

What kind of life was he to live now? Surely he couldn't keep Sherlock away forever. John solemnly shook his head, placing it wearily in his hands. He knew he couldn't live without Sherlock; he could be alive, but those two states of being were not equal. John had thrived on the adventure, the danger, the sense of accomplishment that Sherlock had given to him. He appreciated Sherlock's genius, in turn garnering Sherlock's appreciation for John's willingness to be a conduit of genius. The men mutually benefitted from their relationship, both found purpose due to the existence of the other. Molly had called them "two halves of the same whole", an assessment she had provided accurately. John knew her words rang true; Sherlock and John Watson, consulting detective and his doctor, forever entwined by the life they lead before 'the fall'.

"But how're we supposed to live after it?" John wondered aloud. His voice echoed through the flat, probing at the open wound still gaping in John's chest. The hollow sound the flat made forced John's mind into high gear. He couldn't, and wouldn't, allow himself to spiral downward again without Sherlock. However, his life was infinitely better when Sherlock was the centerpiece. Regardless of the sexual attraction between them, John needed Sherlock Holmes. He was fairly certain Sherlock needed him as well.

John stood, setting his shoulders. He was determined to have Sherlock return to 221b Baker Street come Hell or high water. He worked his mind furiously to concoct a plan to request Sherlock's return to Baker St. He knew he'd need Molly; she had wiggled her way into Sherlock's life long before John arrived, and therefore her knowledge of Sherlock was almost more extensive than John's. Which, even John had to admit, was impressive. Grabbing some loose sheets of note paper, a pen, and a book, John gathered the items in his arms and galloped out of the flat, destination St. Bart's Laboratories, target Molly Hooper.


End file.
